Month: December 2023

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When you’re a kid, dancing fell between two categories: stuff you tried to emulate from music videos and friends, or dances you learned at school. I typically made do with the latter since I lacked MTV and dancing friends in my immediate vicinity.


In elementary school, there was a period where we could choose a fun elective to partake in. I can’t even recall what all the options were, but I felt like I needed to forfeit The More Fun Stuff to know how to work my two left feet with the remedials. What were the Cool Kids doing? They already knew how to dance, I guess, and took up other things. My friends and fellow nerds were the ones lining up on the outdoor patio, taking instructions from the teacher. I did feel awkward, but I did have a little fun– and the small confidence boost of doing the right steps after a few tries was worth it.


Unfortunately, that was the exception to how the academically-sanctioned dance classes usually went. And most of the time, it was under duress for Participation Credit– where they won’t call your parents for being a difficult punk destined for the electric chair. (Hey! I’m cool! Did you get that reference!? And now that Prince song is stuck in my head…)


Cue gym class, the bane of BLERDs. We were taught the waltz (where would I use this?), square dancing (where can I use this?!), and whatever popular line dance was happening. But unlike the outdoor patio scenario, that was humiliating. My bullies and crushes alike were watching me go “AYE!” in the wrong direction. (BTW, If that VHS tape of me doing The Macarena for extra credit in gym still exists, please dispose of it. Or post it on YouTube. You cannot kill me in a way that matters.)


So. I have a (mostly) negative association with dancing. Understandably. I guess.


I didn’t try again until high school, when I complained loudly that no one was dancing– specifically, no one was dancing with me. And thanks to my big mouth I found myself rooted in place, swaying side to side with a boy who I had a major crush on, and I didn’t dare move my hands past his shoulders until the last bit of the song. My friends cheered me on and hollered when I got brave enough to move them down to his hips.


Everything was mortifying at that age. But it’s funny now, and I did eventually find it funny the next day (and I touched my crush! I was giddy for days, honestly).


I declared myself strictly the wallflower type through college and beyond. I have all the excuses and methods (and observations):


  • You’re too busy people-watching– but don’t make eye contact, or Rinoa will find you.

  • If you’re a mosher, you cannot be caught dancing.

  • If you like un-dance-able genres, you have no obligation to do so.

  • “Sorry! I’ll be behind the bar! All night!” If that’s already covered, bring a hookah or something flammable that must need babysitting.

  • Be outside and away from the dance floor as far as possible… even if you don’t smoke.

  • Find a plushy couch (or, with consent, a lap to sit on) and be so darn comfortable you don’t wanna move.

  • All dogs (and cats) must be petted and/or chased around constantly.

  • Speaking of chasing constantly, you can always seem to be looking for somebody that you just keep missing!

  • Wear heavy, heavy platform boots. Can’t possibly dance in those! (You can always take that as a challenge, should you change your mind.)


But in spite of those, I have been caught:


  • dancing with my best friends because I know they won’t (maliciously) make fun of me as they help me out,

  • being upset when declared having “rhythm like a white girl,”

  • dancing in my room when I have too much energy,

  • participating in those crowd-pleasing line dances where you just follow the directions (and there’s a ton of people messing up with me so I blend right in),

  • following workout videos that were suspiciously like dance lessons, and

  • that one time I danced at that wedding. We’ll blame the open bar.

  • And that other wedding.

  • And the one where my aunts dared me to.

  • And that other wedding where I rehearsed The Wobble with my relatives.

  • And my friend’s wedding where I was terrified I’d drop my date on the floor as I dipped her but did it anyway!


But seriously. You get the idea.


I am still jealous of the people that can just… move. Without a guide, or knowing enough of the basics that they can cobble something together. Let the music flow through them and not worry about how silly or how stiff they look (or do, and just don’t give a shit).


I can count on one hand where I’ve truly felt that. But soon, it’ll be two hands.


In the last pit I was in, I didn’t dance too much– like a goldfish, I wasn’t acclimated to the water (crowd) well enough and I promptly froze for the rest of the night, to be around too many people too soon. So I was watching others, taking notes, hoping I’ll learn how to do that. I was too self-conscious to let go of my dance anxiety, too worried I’ll look like that ultra stiff and awkward lady from the vine (the one in my mind’s eye, anyway; in retrospect I’m reconsidering that she may be taking the piss but any rate, let the woman dance!).


But the last few times were great. Once, I heard a favorite song and moved without thinking! Then, a show was so good that I couldn’t help but two-step and sway the whole time. I wore wedges in the mosh pit! I fell in the mosh pit, because you don’t wear wedges in a mosh pit, you two step-in those! I’ve brought partners to shows and sometimes we’d dance. Sometimes, together! And I’d touch them, all dance-like! From our last date I was giddy for days (hell, I’m still giddy)!


As you get older, you stop giving a shit about things. I hope that’s what is happening to me when it comes to this dancing stuff. Maybe I’ll even get the hang of it.


Or not.


But I’ll continue to have fun regardless whether I’m shy two-stepping or being an introverted wallflower, people-watching and staying close to the exit.

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This man knows not of how this information has affected me

But he knows the color of the car I just drove away in

“Flinch,” by Alanis Morissette


Triggers and C-PTSD are a motherfucker. I’m not sure if I’m using the correct terminology, so let me just paint the scene. At any rate, my reaction was as visceral as those song lyrics.


You’re mindlessly scrolling on your social media of choice, when you come across a thread. It seems like a cool idea, an outing or event, and you’re actually free that weekend. So you scroll.


And you see a familiar name. It takes a moment, but you remember.


And you want to throw up.


Because this name is no longer a friend of yours; you stopped speaking to each other after a heated argument. A major one, you can say; that was no pineapple-belongs-on-pizza debate.


I remember that morning.


I tried to explain how wrong it was to post and share the murder of a Black person, even if it was for a supposedly noble cause, because institutionalized racism even affects how our deaths are portrayed in the media a mere trauma porn– no dignity, all spectacle. It is about Impact, not Intent. But she doubled down, screaming about so-called justice. She did not listen. She ignored nuance. And somehow my concern translated to “you want those cops to get away with murder.”


It has happened before. And I have a feeling it will keep happening. Because to those so worried about justice, the end will always justify the means– and if that means my pain is a stepping stone to a slap on the wrist for a cop, then so be it. “Justice is served! Sorry about your mental health, though. Have you tried thinking about the bigger picture?”


I’m tired of that racist shit, the same conversations.


And I’m tired of this coming from people who I thought I could rely on.


I cried that morning. “Why are people like this!?” I wailed on my girlfriend’s shoulder.


I’m tired of my pain not mattering, and it hurts.


I saw her name, and it came flooding back.


So what did I do?


Before logging off for awhile for a nice bubble bath, I let a few people in that thread know. Some understood, others opened dialogue with me and respected boundaries when I ran out of spoons.


Only one said she “understood” my point of view but didn’t see it that way, and hoped that I didn’t hate her for “partying with this person once a year.” I said I didn’t. And it wasn’t a lie. But I thought, if you’re willing to overlook such gross thought patterns for a giant bonfire and booze, how long will it take before you reveal something heinous of your own? Would you have my back if The Pattern asserts itself? Could I cry on your shoulder?


I didn’t know.


Since it’s been proven time and time again that I’m just unimportant collateral damage to the culture at large, I have to find my own ways to protect myself. On the outside it’s callous, unforgiving, with ghosting tendencies, and kinda mean. But for the people that have been burned like this one too many times– for those on the margins who would rather not risk their safety for the possibility of friendship– they get it.


And with my adult life punctuated by moments like this… is it any wonder why I just wouldn’t bother? It’s not a difficult choice when you frame it like that, and I’m saddened that it has to be this way. Sad, and resigned.


It sucks.


I didn’t stick around long enough to find out if she knew that the company you keep could be a yellow or red flag for most people, and to be honest, I didn’t explain either.


At the end of the day I didn’t hate her. I just couldn’t trust her.


So I lost her number.